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He wasn't the kind of man to wait. He could be patient when it was needed, but when caution was advocated yet he deemed the risk minimal, there were few things that could hold him back. He rose from his bed, defying his doctors' advice. They fussed at him, but when they saw the expression on his face, they fell silent. They didn't argue with him long. He was the commander.
He had work to do.
As soon as he was walking again, Erwin began to plan his business in the capital. He'd been summoned. He didn't have the leisure to recuperate peacefully. He could sense time running out. The enemy was within the walls as well as without. He was surrounded, but he didn't leave immediately. He understood that he was flesh and blood and needed to allow his body to catch up with his mind again. Falling ill was a possibility, and one he preferred to avoid. He moved too fast for his doctors, but not fast enough to suit himself. He walked the halls briskly, testing himself. Pushing himself.
Levi and Hange had gone. The faces in the Survey Corps were all familiar to him, but so many of his higher-ranking officers were absent, for one reason or another, and he felt those absences keenly. He didn't need anyone to lean on, but he did appreciate the presence of those he trusted. Their loyalty, their support, their obedience. There were so few people he could trust.
"Commander." The young woman saluted as she approached him in the hall, and he returned the gesture with his remaining arm without hesitation. He wasn't the first soldier to have lost the physical ability to perform a regulation salute. Her own right arm was bandaged, and he knew she had been on the last mission outside the walls.
"State your business."
"I'm under orders from Captain Levi, sir," she said. "If you'll follow me."
At the words Captain Levi, he inclined his head. He didn't hesitate, following her as she led the way, her pride at guiding the commander evident in her stride. Levi had been busy in his absence. His worth was far greater than mere physical strength, and he was formidable in battle. Erwin had not, in truth, lost his right arm.
"He wouldn't let anyone else go through Squad Leader Zacharius' possessions," she explained. "He said to take you to his room once you were well enough." In the Survey Corps, they spoke of the dead unemotionally. The alternative was best avoided, especially in public. Death was their comrade, a too-familiar companion riding at their side. He'd felt Death brush up against him, its touch both cold and hot.
Neither his face nor his expression faltered, at these words. He remained calm as he followed her. "Of course." There was nothing odd about the order Levi had given her. It wasn't unheard of for the commander to sort through the belongings of one his higher ranking officers, particularly one with whom he'd been on such close terms. It was a mark of respect for the fallen, a way to honor the dead. He had spoken with Levi briefly about Mike, before Levi's departure, and they appeared to have settled the matter. He could have taken Levi's decision at face value, but he suspected that the surface of it was only one layer. Levi or Hange could have easily dealt with Mike's possessions, which were not numerous, as he well knew. Erwin had a number of demands on his time and demons on his mind, and he was still recovering from the loss of his arm. It wasn't essential to involve him in this undertaking.
Mike's things were only that: things. They weren't Mike.
Yet he wouldn't refuse, and Levi must have known that.
The room was spacious by Survey Corps standards, and the window looked out on the practice field and the green trees beyond, the forest where recruits and older soldiers alike trained, striking at false Titans in the shadows. It was necessary practice, but Erwin knew from experience that it couldn't prepare you for the actuality of battle. There was nothing that could do that.
Erwin was familiar with the view. It was similar to the one from his window, but at a different angle. He was familiar, too, with the contents of the room, more or less. "Thank you," he told the young woman who he'd allowed to lead him here, though he knew the way by heart. "I'll be fine now."
"Yes, Sir." She saluted and turned, and Erwin realized as she departed that he wanted her to stay. He let her go, nonetheless.
Erwin could tell at once that Levi had been here. Everything was almost brutally clean and organized. Mike was neat, but to a human degree. He did leave things out of place. Crooked lines and rumpled clothes were possibilities with Mike, unlike with Levi. These things had already been gone through, then. Did Levi want him to make the final determination of what should be kept and what should be disposed of? Erwin thought he understood. What Levi wanted was for him to look, to acknowledge. Fine. He could do that.
Mike's spare uniforms hung in the closet. They were too large for most of the other soldiers, but they could be taken in and put to use. He preferred not to waste resources. Next to the uniforms were the clothes Mike wore during his relatively rare time off duty, all well-laundered but ascetically plain, mostly gray or dark brown. Erwin ran a hand lightly over one of the charcoal-colored shirts. He was alone, and no one would see or judge him for his reaction, but he didn't have one. He felt oddly calm.
Erwin's sense of smell was nothing like Mike's, but the room did smell of him. It was a familiar scent, and he was aware of the fact that once these objects were taken away and the room cleared out for its next occupant, he would never breathe it in again. This was the last of it. He had wondered, sometimes, what it was like for Mike to smell people, to know them without seeing them. Now, he was aware of a faint spiciness, and a dry but fresh scent, like that of leaves in autumn, not quite withered away, still clinging to their trees. There was something warmer, too, something animal. Being human, Mike was an animal, so that was understandable, but there was the added fact of his fondness for dogs and horses. Sometimes the dogs would follow him up into the building. It was against the rules, technically, but no one minded.
Mike had a few books on his shelf, mostly about the outdoors, the wilderness. There were guides to edible plants and healing herbs and other useful flora you could find growing in the woods and meadows. There was an illustrated child's storybook about a boy and the animals on the farm where he lived. The tale was a simple adventure, neatly contained within the walls, nothing that would be forbidden by the king. Mike had once told him that it was his favorite book when he was a child. The pages were well-loved, soft with wear. Mike could be sentimental. It would have felt wrong to destroy his books, or give them away to someone who hadn't known him. He would send them back to Mike's family. That would be the proper way to deal with most of these items. They'd appreciate having these tokens to remember him by, he was sure.
There were familiar remnants from a time Erwin had lived through that felt ancient now, mementos that only Erwin would have understood the meaning of: a smooth river stone, a scrap of fabric, some newspaper clippings, a crudely satirical drawing of their commander. There was an old leather dog collar. A scarf. A decorative box with a medal inside it. An empty bottle from the bar where they used to drink. A small, amateurish landscape painting. So many little things that had been left behind, which had no value to anyone who didn't know their owner.
More clothes filled the drawers of Mike's bureau, all of them bearing the severe mark of Levi's careful hand, folded into stark quadrilaterals. Except for one drawer, the small one on the top right. This one contained nothing but paper. Unlike the others, there was no sign that it had been tidied, and its contents rested with a casual ease that put one more in mind of Mike himself than Levi.
With a frown, Erwin reached in and picked up the tied bundle of papers that took up most of the space. The twine binding them was easily undone. The knot dissolved with the slightest tug. He never would have gone through Mike's papers while he was alive, and even now he experienced a pang of guilt, a sense that he was invading his friend's privacy. Yet there was the possibility that these papers should be taken to someone who might want to have them, that they could tell him something he needed to know about how to carry out his duty of dealing with Mike's possessions.
The bundled papers were letters, each in an envelope, although none of the envelopes showed any sign of having been sealed, each one innocent of wax. Erwin opened the first one with a detached curiosity that immediately sharpened into dread when he read the first word:
Erwin
He put the letter down, carefully. He opened the next. It began with the same salutation: his name. He already knew, without needing to look at the rest, that they would all begin that way. He imagined Levi standing here, undergoing this exact experience. He knew what Levi must have done. He must have slipped the letters back into their envelopes, retied the piece of twine, and returned the bundle to its place. Waiting for him.
For the first time since entering the room, Erwin was experiencing a definite emotion. This was what he had been trying to avoid. There was no reason for grief. It had no use. Erwin found himself faced with a choice. He could take the letters with him and read them, or he could destroy them. They would be easy to obliterate. They were paper and ink and nothing more. Nothing but ashes would remain, if he burned them. He could do it. He could do it now. It would be the wisest course of action. If he didn't hesitate, it would be over within the hour.
Erwin did something he rarely did: he hesitated. He took the letters in hand, the entire bundle of them, and he left the room. Mike's uniforms could be resized and reused. His personal effects would be returned to his family. Erwin would keep the letters.
He was tired. He tired easily, still ill and weak, the ache in his arm increasing to a throb. He knew from experience that if he didn't lie down soon, he'd grow dizzy. He was done with this task. He'd made his decision.
***
The nurses awakened him when they came to bring him dinner. He didn't feel well-rested, but the pain in his arm was less, and his head was clearer. He forced down some food, then found himself standing at his dresser. Again, the temptation came to him, to get rid of the letters: rip them or burn them or throw them into running water. He didn't. Maybe it was a mistake, a sign of weakness.
He hadn't thought there would be any new words from Mike waiting for him anywhere. He found that he couldn't throw them away. After a long wait, he opened the drawer. He had no choice but to read one of the letters. He knew Mike's handwriting well: careful, lean, and slightly slanted. A few words were crossed out, and there was a smudge here and there, but overall, the paper was neat.
Erwin,
You're going to say this is a bad idea. Not that you'll read this, but I know that's what you'd say. If it's written down, someone can find it. Someone can read it. I don't think it'll be a problem. No one cares about things like this. All right, maybe, but not as much as you think. I've been careful. I always try to be careful. I've made a couple mistakes, but nothing too bad. I'm not going to bring down the Survey Corps with this. They'll say, 'That Zacharius, we always knew he was strange. He was never quite right.' Maybe that's true. I don't mind.
Hange mentioned something to me the other day about writing letters that you don't mean to send. I'm pretty sure she was talking about Titans, but I thought it sounded like a good idea. I'm not good at writing, not like you. Or talking. I don't ever talk this much at a stretch, and it's like talking on paper. I feel silly, but here goes.
It's been bothering me for a while, these things I want to say. I shouldn't say them, for all kinds of reasons, but it's tying me up inside. I can't let that happen. I don't want to be like Nile. I don't want to leave. But the problem is, if I did leave, it wouldn't solve a thing. I don't want to marry a pretty girl and raise children. I almost wish that was what I wanted. I think it could have been, once.
I remember when I first met you. It was a long time ago, it seems like now. You smiled at me, and you talked to me like I was someone important. You're good at that. You make people feel important. Like they matter, like you think they're a better person than they really are, and they want to be that good. I want to be that good, for you.
Erwin stopped reading. He felt ill again.
The handwriting was Mike's, but the words were like nothing he'd heard him say. Mike was quiet, controlled, powerful. He'd agreed with Erwin. Usually. They'd decided on a course of action, and Mike had never voiced his disagreement with Erwin's policy. He didn't know what he was supposed to do with this knowledge, with these letters. There was nothing he could do. Mike was gone. The feelings he spoke of no longer existed. Where he had been, there was a blank. An empty room and a closet full of clothes slowly but certainly losing their scent.
He should destroy these letters. That fact was clear.
Yet for a second time, he failed to act.
***
The capital had grown worse. It had always been rife with crime and corruption and decay, but now it seemed one couldn't go a few yards without seeing some evidence of the rot, literal and figurative, that was creeping into every corner of human society. He and Nile rode in silence, the tension between them jostled by the wheels of the carriage running over the uneven road. Erwin didn't feel compelled to be the first to break it, so he waited. He could sense Nile's displeasure, but it was nothing new. Unease and unhappiness had grown between them over the years, sprouting up through the cracks in their friendship. "I blame you," Nile said at last.
"For what, this time?" Erwin asked, patiently.
"You know what I'm talking about."
"I don't, actually. There are so many things you could be referencing, considering the great number of my reprehensible acts." His tone was mild, but there was a bite to his words. He didn't need to hear Nile reprimand him for the acts he already blamed himself for.
"It's your fault he's dead."
The words, typically blunt and typically Nile, lay between them and could not be retracted now that they'd been said.
"I know that it is," said Erwin. He wasn't going to accept blame for Mike joining the Survey Corps. It had been Mike's dream to join before he'd even met Erwin. But every decision was his decision, and every death lay on his shoulders. He would take responsibility for every death. He would carry them all, no matter how heavy the burden grew.
"That's it? You know? You're so cold."
Erwin resisted the urge to show his frustration. It wouldn't do any good. He couldn't salvage what he'd once had with Nile. He could only hope to utilized what little of their old amity remained. "What else do you want from me, Nile?"
"How about a spark of normal human feeling?"
"I haven't seen one from you," Erwin replied evenly.
They regarded each other. Each of them was right about the other, and for a moment, there was an openness on Nile's face, his eyes widening and the hard line of his mouth softening, as if there was something else he wanted to say, less hard and snappish. Erwin felt himself respond, aware his own expression must have echoed Nile's. For a moment, they were nothing but boys who'd lost their friend, but they both knew they couldn't afford to be that. The moment passed.
When Nile spoke again, it was as if the beginning of their conversation hadn't occurred, and he made no further reference to it. It was amazing, what people in their line of work omitted, huge swaths of their lives that were excised because they grew too painful. In the Survey Corps, you learned the act of erasure, or you lost your ability to function. Nile had been one of them, once. He knew how.
***
He had to focus on his work. The situation within the walls was coming to a head. The letters were a distraction. They were valuable to him, but they were dangerous. Each word acted on him like a poison, spreading through his system, bringing up thoughts and memories he would rather push aside. He was usually more sensible than this.
Seated alone in his room in the inn where he'd chosen to stay, Erwin pulled the letters out of his coat pocket again. If Mike were here, Erwin would have asked him for his input. He was already forming plans about what he was going to do, but it was a risk, and what he was risking was the lives of, not only his own men, but of so many within the walls. The letters were a poor replacement for a living man. They were only ink and paper. Private thoughts, concerning Erwin, but not written for Erwin's benefit. Erwin did something he wasn't supposed to do. He wished he could see him again. His old friend and confidant. His lover. He missed his weight, his strength, his steadiness. He had to push that desire away. It was a worse poison than the letters, wishing to have the dead back. It could drive a man mad. He had always been odd, but he wouldn't go mad. He wouldn't allow that.
The letters were in no discernible order. They weren't dated. He couldn't tell when they'd been written. Would Mike have wanted him to read them? Probably not. Yet he opened another one.
You don't listen to me anymore, he read. Not like you used to. Things changed, at some point. I know they did, but I don't know what that point was. Everybody changes. That's easy to say. I never thought you'd change toward me. My feelings for you haven't changed. I wish you would talk to me. I wish you would tell me what you're thinking. We could share that. I could help you. I can keep your secrets. Why don't you trust me anymore? I know you want to be careful, but you don't have to be careful around me. I'm your friend.
The writing was simple and painfully honest. It was like Mike and yet unlike him, a side of him that he hadn't seen. It was good to be reminded of that, that he wasn't the only one who kept parts of himself hidden away. Erwin sat alone in his room, the letters spread on the table in front of him. It was growing dark. He would spend the night and leave in the morning. He had to decide what to do, and he kept reading as if looking for something.
Nile had been right about him. Look what he'd done to Mike, in trying to do what was best for mankind. He'd tested his loyalty. He'd caused him pain. A spark of normal human feeling, Nile had said. Did he have one of those remaining to him? He must. Yes, he must. He was experiencing an emotion now. There was an ache behind his temples, an ache in his chest. He was aching. He hadn't felt this way since--since a time he preferred not to remember.
The papers were still there, laid out in front of him. They wouldn't disappear because he willed it. They wouldn't change into new letters with new words. This was what he had. It was all he had left. Mike's last words to him, words he'd never meant to say.
I should get rid of these, shouldn't I? Mike had written. I should burn them. That was the point of this, to write this down and make it go away. Never say anything out loud, but say it somehow, so that it stops being what it is. This weight or knot. You say we're not supposed to be distracted. Titans come first. Humanity comes first. You're right. I know you're right. Why am I keeping these, then?
It isn't fair. It isn't fair, Erwin. I don't want to. I'm selfish and--
I don't know what else to write. Damn, I don't think this worked at all.
Erwin sighed. He put down the letter and gazed at his hand. He and Mike were alike, in that. He didn't think reading these had worked, whatever he had hoped to accomplish by doing so, if he had hoped to accomplish anything. At certain points in the letters, it seemed as if Mike had stopped writing, only to pick up his pen later with a new thought in mind. They weren't always coherent or logical. When he started reading again, he found Mike's line of thought had shifted. He'd probably written them in increments, over time. He could be like that. Slow and deliberate. Then suddenly swift and decisive.
But Erwin, what I feel isn't as important as what you do. That's why I'm not angry with you. I want you to do what you have to do, no matter what. For humanity. We have to keep fighting, even if it destroys us. There's nothing that matters more than that. Not even the fact that I love you. And I do.
The world stopped moving. Everything stopped.
Erwin stared down at the words on the paper, words he'd been trying to avoid for years, and not only from Mike. There they were, written plainly.
You're right, but you're wrong, too, in some ways. I don't think love has to be a weakness. It can make you stronger. I'm stronger when I think of you. Maybe that's because I'm different, but maybe you could--
The letter ended there abruptly, unfinished, and Erwin wondered if this was the last one Mike had written. It reminded him of one of the last private conversations they'd had, one of too few moments in a world where there were always demands on their time and never enough time. Time was gone.
Night fell. The city was quiet, but it was a deceptive silence. The city was more dangerous at night. There were no safe places left in the world. The last of them had fallen away.
He went out alone, into the yard behind the inn. No one bothered him, although he knew he wasn't alone. There were people watching, in the dark, standing guard. He knew, because he'd ordered them to come here. He hadn't arrived defenseless.
He burned the letters one by one. He was careful to stamp the ashes out and sprinkle them with dirt. The last thing he needed was to start a fire. No one else could read the letters now, but they weren't gone. He had read each word. It had been incautious of him. Reckless, even. Now he was filled with poison.
That was fine. It could be what he needed. The time for caution had passed.